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Bonus Chapter - Scion Marentia's Purpose at the Imperial Academy
🕑 Added 2025-03-11 01:34:41 +0000 UTCScion Marentia Hartford moved through the wide, polished hall with measured steps, the boots she wore to match her uniform tapping lightly against the smooth stone. Given how early she was, the hall was almost empty of other scions as she made her way to her first class: Foundations of History. She had no real enthusiasm for the subject. The past was the past. What mattered was who controlled it now and who would control it in the future. But the requirements of attending the Imperial Academy demanded that she attend the class and prepare to pass whatever exam her Professor decided upon in order to move on to the second year.
As boring as she knew it would be, at least it would offer a good opportunity to observe the others who would share the class with her. Potential allies or rivals would be interesting enough, but those she was most concerned with observing were potential husbands.
Her thoughts briefly returned to her arrival at the Imperial Academy. Upon arriving, four guards in her father’s service—armored in House Hartfold’s crimson and silver—had marched in disciplined formation, their hands resting lightly on the pommels of their swords. The Waypoint had been bustling, as expected, with newly arrived scions and servants moving throughout, some still disoriented from their arrival. Some few scions had noticed her as soon as she had arrived. She didn’t blame them. She was quite beautiful, after all. Her House was not the most powerful, nor the wealthiest, but it was respectable within the ranks of Barons. And respectable nobility knew how to carry themselves, which only supplemented her beauty.
She remembered then how an older man in a tailored dark coat stepped smoothly to her side. Harold, Baron Hartfold’s most trusted servant and a man who had served her family since before she was born, placed a firm yet respectful hand on her shoulder, steering her slightly to the side.
“Captain,” Harold had addressed the leader of her escort. “Give us some space.”
The captain, a man in his mid-thirties with a clean-shaven face and warm brown eyes, had hesitated only a moment before nodding. “Understood.” With a quick gesture, he had signaled the other guards, and they fell back, dispersing just enough to form a loose square around her and Harold—close enough to intervene if needed, but distant enough to grant Marentia and Harold privacy.
The old retainer had then turned his full attention to Marentia, his sharp gaze assessing her posture, her expression, and even the way she held her gloved hands before speaking. “You understand why you are here, my lady?”
“To attend the Imperial Academy,” Marentia answered immediately, schooling her expression into polite disinterest as she had been taught by her mother.
Harold exhaled through his nose—his version of an unimpressed sigh. “No. You are here to secure the future of House Hartfold.” He had then directed her attention over to the other noble scions arriving. “This Academy is among the finest in the Empire, but more importantly, it is where alliances are formed, where reputations are built, and where futures are decided.”
Though she knew the importance of what her father’s servant had been getting at, in the moment, it was all Marentia could do in that moment to resist the urge to roll her eyes. She had, after all, heard this lecture before.
“Your father does not expect you to dedicate yourself entirely to studies of war or magic,” Harold continued. “It is good to improve yourself, to refine your skills, but strength alone is not your purpose. A noble daughter’s greatest weapon is not her sword but her choice of husband.”
A lesser girl might have balked at the reminder, but Marentia had merely lifted her chin slightly. She had been raised in courtly manners and the realities of noble life. She knew what was expected of her.
“I will be mindful,” she had said instead.
Harold had studied her, searching for any hint of rebellion. Finding none, he had given a slight nod. “Good.” He had then gestured subtly toward a group of young noblemen who had also just arrived, their family banners displayed on the escorts accompanying them. “The Academy is filled with promising candidates. Sons of barons, counts, and even those of higher ranks. You must watch, listen, and learn. Identify who has ambition, whose House is on the rise, and most importantly, who can secure a stable future for you and your kin.”
Marentia had folded her hands before her, fingers tapping lightly against the fine embroidery of her gloves. She had already known this, of course. Her father had drilled it into her before she left home. She had no illusions about love. Marriage was not about personal desire. It was about security, power, and legacy.
Still, that did not mean she would settle for just anyone.
Harold must have caught the flicker of calculation in her eyes because he had let out a quiet chuckle. “Ah. Now you are thinking.”
Marentia had allowed herself a small smirk. “There’s little point in rushing, is there? A hasty decision could be just as ruinous as a careless one.”
“Indeed.” Harold looked around once more before lowering his voice. “The Academy will distract many of your peers. Some will be lost in their studies, others in their quests for power. You must not be like them. Your priority is securing a strong match for House Hartfold. That is your duty.”
It was a duty she would take seriously.
After leaving her escort to return back to the territory of her House, Marentia had departed to ready herself for her time at the Academy. Everything from touring campus to attending the ceremony at the Amphitheater of Induction had gone off largely as she had planned. The Academy itself, especially its architecture, was as breathtaking as she had been led to believe. The area near where she had her own apartment was surrounded by the marble towers of one of the Archducal factions, and the vast open grounds surrounding where she was staying were immaculately maintained, the paths lined with golden lanterns that would glow come dusk.
And yet, she barely spared any of it a second glance. The real sight worth assessing wasn’t the stonework nor the grounds, after all. No, it was the scions from which she would have to pick a potential suitor to pursue.
Her attention returned to the present as she finally came to the door of the room that held her first class, Foundations of History. Adjusting her clothes slightly, as she knew the importance of a good first impression, Marentia took only a moment to prepare herself before going in.
As soon as she entered the room, Marentia could feel the attention of several of the scions already in the room. She made her way to a free seat on the far side, most of her attention fixed on studying the young men around her as she went, categorizing them much as she had been trained to do so.
A trio near the back of the room caught her attention first. Their uniforms bore the marks of Baronial Houses. One of them, a tall blonde with an easy smile, and even easier on the eyes, gestured animatedly as he spoke, while the other two—dark-haired and serious—listened with measured patience. She did not recognize them immediately, but that was easily remedied. She would just have to do a little research first, to make sure they were worth her time. If promising, that, combined with their status as scions of Baronies, perhaps they were worth meeting.
Setting the sons of barons aside for now, Marentia turned her attention to the other side of the room where another group stood in a loose formation. They bore the insignias of Comital Houses, and, as a result, were likely descended from families that were wealthier and more politically entrenched than the first group she saw. The one who attracted her attention most was a dark-haired man with aristocratic features and a hawkish gaze who leaned against a desk, his shoulder marked with the crest of House Valgremont. Her father had told her about that House in passing, which was why she recognized it. A rising power, apparently, and one whose influence in the regional capital had begun to grow in recent years. The sense she got from him was that he was ambitious and calculating. Dangerous qualities for sure if they should be directed against her, but allied through marriage, they could well be the key to reinforcing her own House. It helped that he was pleasant to look at as well, but that was by far a secondary concern in the face of serving her house according to her family.
Her examination cut off just before she arrived at the seat she had selected when her eyes landed on them.
Non-human scions.
A high elf with golden hair stood beside a half-elven woman, their presence drawing subtle attention even from other nobles. With angular features that each of their inferior bloodlines possessed, their kind always did. Marentia had little patience for their intrusion in Imperial politics, for all that they had been accepted for many centuries in the region already. Despite that, her family had told her how the elves had their own courts, their own games of power, and they did not belong in the Empire’s noble hierarchy.
Her fingers curled against her desk as she spotted another young man with dusky gray skin and short, pointed ears—likely a half-dark elf—engaged in conversation with the son of a human knight. Pointless and foolish. Marentia recognized the mark of the human’s shoulder and well knew his house to be an adherent of The Ivory Banner. The half-dark elf would be used, or worse, by the human scion.
Turning her attention away from that distateful interaction, Marentia focused on quelling the revulsion in her chest at the thought that rose within her mind about some of the other, even more disgusting creatures admitted to the Imperial Academy. Creatures like hobgoblins and the myriad of beastkin were allowed in among their betters. It was one thing for the Empire to allow elves and half-bloods to study here, even if they were beneath true nobility. But to accept those things?
Marentia exhaled slowly through her nose, composing herself. It did not matter. They did not matter. She had already seen what she needed to see of the scions around her. Even though the class was not yet full, she had observed a number of potential scions of interest, while those who did not had been discarded from consideration, and the non-human filth was beneath any further thoughts. And now, with the first judgments made, her thoughts turned to the second most important matter at hand.
Her classes.
The Imperial Academy prided itself on its broad and rigorous curriculum, offering training in subjects that ranged from military strategy to arcane theory, economics to political philosophy. Her mother had told her how all of those topics were essential for the young men, and especially the heirs of their houses. But not for her. Marentia agreed on that point. She was not here to become a mage, nor a general. She had no need to wield a sword, to memorize battle formations, or to study obscure historical treaties that had long since lost their relevance. Yes, those were the concerns of men—the heirs who would rule, the commanders who would lead armies, the scholars who would advise courts.
No, Marentia’s true education had begun long before she had ever set foot on the grounds of the Imperial Academy. At her family’s estate, she had learned the real lessons that shaped noble houses—how to navigate a court with grace, how to steer a conversation with subtlety, how to command a room with the proper dress and walk. She had watched her mother and the other noble ladies weave alliances with nothing more than a compliment, an invitation, or the withholding of both. She had observed the way power moved, not in battlefields of blood and steel, but in ballrooms and salons, in whispers exchanged behind gilded fans.
And that was why, out of all the classes she would be required to take at the Imperial Academy this year, there was only one that mattered.
Etiquette and Courtly Manners.
The name itself was deceptively simple, almost quaint compared to the more grandiose courses offered to noble scions—courses on statecraft, warfare, magic, and history. But those were merely technical skills.
Etiquette was strategy.
Courtly Manners were weapons as sharp as any blade.
That class would not teach her anything she did not already know—but it would refine her, sharpen her edges, ensure she could wield her charm, poise, and, most importantly, her beauty as deftly as a duelist wielded a rapier. All of which would give her direct access to potential suitors in the one arena where she held the absolute advantage. A battlefield where wit, grace, and presence determined the victor.
The other courses were necessary formalities for her, and, so long as she did not fail them outright and was able to gain at least an uncommon class, that was all she needed to do. After all, what use was military strategy? Her mother had taught her that wars were decided long before the first sword was drawn — through treaties, marriages, and betrayals. The same could be said for the art of managing estates and wealth. Her aunts had explained that a proper noblewoman did not count coins, but simply dictated where they would flow. Her mother had said it best. A woman’s power is her ability to make men move the world for her. Marentia turned over her mother’s words as the rest of the class continued to trickle in.
Marentia did not flinch when the doors burst open, though many around her did. She had been raised better than to gawk at spectacle. Instead, she straightened her posture, smoothing out the pristine sleeves of her uniform as the professor strode into the room.
Black robes, trimmed with silver. A severe braid of black streaked with silver. Dark eyes swept the room with the precision of a master appraiser assessing the worth of raw gemstones. Interesting. Perhaps this was the kind of instructor who would teach lessons worth learning.
She introduced herself as Professor Elara Mordrane. Many of the students were taking notes as the professor started lecturing. Others were watching the professor with expressions ranging from bored disinterest to barely concealed apprehension. And then there were those she was already familiar with—scions of high-ranking noble houses, heirs to fortunes and legacies. Her attention briefly wandered from Professor Mordrane to one of the later arrivals to the class.
Klarion Blacksword.
He was, technically, a scion of an Archducal House. The Blackswords had once been a name of power, synonymous with military dominance and unwavering will. But that was no longer the case. Now, the house was but a shadow of what it had been, its influence quickly eroded over the past few decades. Even the Blacksword’s presence here at the Academy was seen by some as a desperate gambit to restore what had been lost. The whispers had already begun since the Induction Ceremony that Klarion wouldn’t survive the year. His presence was not even tolerated, let alone respected, after all.
Marentia dismissed him without further thought. A foolish betrothal like one to the House of Blacksword would weaken a noble line just as much as a foolish war against a stronger opponent. Even if he somehow managed to prove himself, it would take far more than a single individual to reverse generations of decline. Her family required a match that would elevate them, not one that required rescuing. No, her prospects lay elsewhere.
Her attention snapped back to Professor Mordrane as she gestured toward the chalkboard. With a flick of her hand, words formed across its surface, their neat script aligning into an elegant timeline. Marentia turned her attention to taking notes of her own, recording the details as they appeared. As much as she didn’t see the long-term usefulness of the course, Foundations of History was still not something she could idle away in. The professor had made that clear from the start.
Professor Mordrane’s sharp voice sliced through the air as she outlined the course structure, her pacing deliberate. The room was utterly silent, save for the furious scratching of writing on parchment. When the professor called for questions, Marentia remained silent, content to observe for the moment.
One of the lesser students, an elf, attempted to speak—only to immediately stumble upon addressing the professor incorrectly. A mistake that was met with a cold, almost surgical dressing down. She couldn’t help the small smile that came to her face as the entire class bore witness as Professor Mordrane reminded them all of the importance of rank, hierarchy, and proper conduct.
As the lesson continued, the professor shifted her presentation, turning the question upon the class. Why was this course required of all noble first-years? Silence followed, brief but thick with hesitation. None wished to speak up after witnessing the professor’s cutting discipline. Marentia considered her answer, but another student—a minor noble, if she recalled correctly—answered first. A reasonable response, but simplistic. Professor Mordrane made that clear, though without the venom she had reserved for earlier failings.
Then came the map. A vast projection of the Empire, its many territories and regions that did not do justice to its Multiversal dimensions glowing against the chalkboard. A beautiful display of power and dominion, and yet, for all the grandeur of the Empire, there were still weaknesses. Brutality had long been one of its defining traits. Necessary, perhaps, but had it not also invited resistance? Had it not led to fractures, to rebellions?
It was this thought that led her to speak.
“Professor,” Marentia said, her voice clear and measured.
The low murmur of students dulled to a hush. Dozens of eyes turned toward her, some wide with curiosity, others narrowed with something more akin to morbid anticipation. She didn’t let the latter get to her. She knew what she was doing. This would be the first step in setting herself up as a desirable match for any number of interested young, human men.
Professor Mordrane turned, the weight of her attention settling on Marentia like a brand of cold iron.
For all the authority the professor commanded, her movements were measured and precise. While intimidating, Marentia had no intention of appearing weak to the class.
“If the Empire is so great,” she said smoothly, carefully, “why does it continue to rely on brutality? Surely, as a civilization, we should have moved past such barbaric practices by now.”
Marentia admitted to herself that what she said was a challenge, but it was a calculated one. Not a childish provocation like the insult about the Professor Mordrane’s rank voiced previously. It was a question that showed thought and which, she hoped, would invite discourse rather than insult.
But the silence that followed was not the expectant quiet of academic curiosity. Instead, the air in the room changed, and for the first time since arriving on campus, Marentia felt she might have made a mistake.
Professor Mordrane did not answer immediately. The professor merely studied Marentia, gaze unwavering. It was a slow, deliberate assessment—not just of the words spoken, but of the one who had spoken them. The silence stretched long enough that the flicker of unease that Marentia had begun to feel was starting to turn into a full-fledged social panic. For all that she could feel it bearing down on her, she still refused to let it show. Marentia kept her hands still, her posture straight, her expression schooled into one of composed attentiveness.
Then, at last, Professor Mordrane spoke.
“A noble sentiment,” the professor said, her voice like the sharp edge of frost. “But also a profoundly stupid one.”
A sharp intake of breath from somewhere in the hall. Marentia flinched before she could stop herself. A slight shifting that would be barely perceptible to most, but there nonetheless.
And yet, Professor Mordrane had seen it.
She had struck not with anger, not with scorn, but with the effortless precision of a duelist slipping a blade between an opponent’s ribs.
This was not a reprimand for an ill-chosen question.
This was worse.
This was cold dismissal. The disassembly of an argument which Professor Mordrane considered so fundamentally flawed that it was not worth the dignity of an impassioned response.
Marentia had made a mistake. A miscalculation. Her hands remained perfectly still atop her desk, but her jaw tightened. She had thought herself clever—had believed she had presented a question worth discussing, one that would place her in the center of a meaningful exchange.
“Allow me to explain,” Professor Mordrane said, again stepping out from behind the podium to pace the front of the classroom. Her robes swept behind her like a dark tide. “In your sheltered upbringing, Marentia, you may have been taught that strength is unnecessary when diplomacy can prevail. That is wrong.” She held up a hand in emphasis. “Diplomacy without strength is an open invitation to annihilation. The Empire’s practices — brutal, as you call them — are the shield that keeps each and every one of us alive. The Rhalgyr Incursion. The Shardfall Conflagration. The Harrowing of Ashenvale III. What kept our enemies at bay after each? Negotiation? No. Thousands of Imperial Legionnaires who held the line until reinforcements could arrive to beat back the invaders.”
Her voice rose slightly, commanding the attention of the class. “Brutality is not the absence of civilization, Marentia.” Professor Mordrane stared down at Marentia, who stared straight ahead, her face turning pale. “It is its foundation. The laws you take for granted, the luxuries you enjoy, this Academy itself — all these are built on the understanding that the Empire will not hesitate to do what is necessary to protect its people and its future.”
Marentia sat frozen, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, the blood draining from her face. Sheltered upbringing. The words struck harder than she would ever admit. Professor Mordrane’s tone was not scornful, not mocking—but worse. It was matter-of-fact, an observation so certain that refuting it felt childish. She wanted to speak. To counter as her family had taught her to. To salvage what little dignity she had remaining.
She could feel the eyes of her peers on her. Some were watching with barely concealed satisfaction, enjoying the spectacle of a noble scion being put in her place. Others were impassive, looking on without amusement but with keen interest.
Marentia swallowed hard, keeping her gaze fixed on a distant point beyond the professor’s shoulder. She had been prepared for a challenge, a debate of ideas where she might demonstrate her intellect and command of discourse. Where she might bring herself into the awareness of any number of potential suitors. She had not expected to be dissected like an untrained child.
Marentia exhaled slowly, willing herself to remain composed. She was humiliated, but she would not let it break her. This was a lesson. A bitter one, but one she would remember. But a single lesson did not define a scion’s education. Like her mother had taught her, she would learn. She would adapt.
Above all, she would ensure that her future—her House’s future—was secured.
She just had to find a man worthy of her.
